


per sempre tua

by varsiity



Series: Family Ties [3]
Category: Town of Salem (Video Game)
Genre: Betrayal, Character Death, Drug Addiction, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Italian Mafia, M/M, Murder, Stabbing, this ship ruined my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-09-17 08:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16971291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varsiity/pseuds/varsiity
Summary: The Mafioso reflects.





	1. the beginning

Cavelli spent God knows how long in the south, wasting away in a haze of blankness.

Georgia nights were almost like old times, the good times -- listening to the steady rise and fall of voices in some shady bar, someone dealing cards at a back table like the Disguiser used to, the scent of cigarette smoke filling the air. People drinking and laughing. He had a thing for whiskey once, so long ago that it feels like he was a different person completely. He’s turned his attention to headier thrills as the years have gone on. Alcohol to oxycontin to heroin. A logical progression.

Even heroin’s lost the appeal, the euphoria long gone, but it doesn’t stop him from emptying a syringe into the crook of his arm every so often, whenever he starts to feel the old hollow feeling creeping back in again. Still numbs the guilt better than shots ever did. (And if he’s too dizzy, too disoriented to properly register the sound the Spy makes deep in her throat when he sends a bullet through her head, it’s really for the better.)

Georgia nights are behind him now, abandoned by the relentless passage of time. Along with most things he’s ever known. Cavelli can’t figure out what the hell he thinks he’s doing _here_ instead, of all places. It’s been three months since he’s arrived, and it’s still too much, all at once; the faint scent of the Consigliere’s familiar perfume in the air still feels like a punch to the gut. He finds it almost odd how it took only one cursive letter from Chiara to drag him right back to the place he swore was behind him.

One letter, peppered with mentions of the good old days and sweet sentiments he was positive she didn’t mean. But she welcomed him readily enough, even if her voice held nothing but mocking pity when she confronted him. It’s beyond him why she even bothered. She’d found a more capable pawn in his absence. Replaced one Luciano with another. He supposes Chiara always liked having more puppets under her control, even if he’s not quite sure who’s pulling the strings anymore.

It was that other Luciano that tracked him down in Georgia to deliver her message, that locked eyes with him across a seedy barroom that Genovese looked overwhelmingly out of place in. A neat black suit, dark hair standing out among the sun-bleached blonds filling the room, and confident, sophisticated self-possession.

At first, he had seemed a little too similar to Chiara for Cavelli’s tastes. The two of them had the same fancy clothes and quiet poise. Genovese had soon made apparent that he and Chiara were nearly opposites in personality. There was something almost magnetic about the elegantly-dressed man, something captivating in his eyes, something that wouldn’t let Cavelli look away even if he had wanted to.

Against his own better judgement, Cavelli had permitted Genovese in.

To his own surprise, it had proved a good decision.

That one chance conversation had turned into more, across days and weeks and months, in a whirlwind of unfamiliar feelings and nights wasted away in hotel rooms. Maybe opposites really do attract. He still can’t figure out what this even _is_ . A relationship, maybe, or simply a dependency, fostered for far too goddamn long. He doesn’t know nearly enough about love to figure it out. Cavelli’s vaguely certain he’s never felt something as intense as love is _supposed_ to be, and he’s even more certain that he never will. The capacity for it is gone. He’s starting to get used to apathy.

But he feels _something_ , sometimes, something warm and soothing that makes his heart do strange, fluttery things whenever Genovese is in the room, whenever their fingers are intertwined, whenever Genovese says something sugary-sweet that makes Cavelli come close to smiling. _Something_ makes it worth the late nights, the disapproving glances from Chiara, the unfamiliarity of the whole thing.

(Sometimes he silently questions why the hell Genovese sticks around, what he could possibly see in the exhausted, drug-addicted wreck of a Mafioso that Cavelli’s become, but he’d rather not think about it. He fears the conclusions he might reach.)

It’s almost too good to be true.

\--

The common room is almost exactly like he remembers it.

The creaky floorboards, the worn leather couches, the flimsy table where the Hypnotist would smoke during meeting breaks. They’re all unchanged. The ornate clock on the wall across from him, counting down seconds in a monotone tick-tock, the same as it was years ago. He knows this place too goddamn well to take any sort of comfort in the familiarity.

The Hypnotist’s long gone now, along with the Disguiser and Framer and any good memories they shared here. The Consort’s off in god knows where, according to the Consigliere, maybe trying to put himself back together in the same way Cavelli attempted to. Chiara herself is older and sharper and her words are a thousand times more cutting. Their trio, finally disbanded, and the last of the original three somewhere far, far away.

Genovese has slipped neatly into the empty spot Romano left. Almost like he belongs there. He looks like it, sitting across the room on a leather loveseat, reading a novel with the visual of a black cat curled around the book’s binding.

The parallels make Cavelli dizzy. The whole situation does. His head hurts -- the combination of the aftermath of Chiara’s briefing, a wave of sudden nostalgia, and a rapidly vanishing high -- and he’s suddenly aware of the way he’s practically leaning against the doorway for support.

Genovese doesn’t seem to have noticed he's even there. Cavelli clears his throat, blinking away the dark spots beginning to swim in his vision, and the other Mafioso’s eyes flick up from the page at the sound. “I’m done.”

“Okay, _caro_. Do you want to leave?" The smooth tone of Genovese’s voice is laced with faint concern. Cavelli gets the impression he doesn’t look so great at the moment. “...Are you alright?”

"Yeah, in a minute." In comparison, Cavelli's own voice is hoarse from misuse, still thick with the Italian accent he never quite managed to lose. He rubs his fingers absently against the underside of one wrist. "I think I need to sit down."

The other Mafioso nods and shifts to the side, enough to provide Cavelli space. After a second's pause, he takes the seat that was offered, fidgeting rather uncomfortably.

He can't figure out what the hell he's supposed to say to fill in the silence.  Each second is punctuated by the clock's insistent ticking. The high's beginning to give way to a sinking drowsiness, even as he digs his nails into his own skin as a feeble last attempt at keeping himself awake. Genovese seems to notice what he's doing. Next thing Cavelli knows, the dark-haired man is setting the book down and reaching over to pull his hands apart.

Cavelli's immediate instinct is to flinch away. He forces it down with some effort. The other Mafioso's skin is cool and smooth against his, fingertips lightly brushing over the insides of his bruised wrists, across the angry red lines he was busy trying to deepen. After a moment, Cavelli exhales slowly and leans into Genovese, resting his head on the other man's shoulder.

Genovese looks over at him, the crimson of his eyes gleaming in the half-light, and for a second Cavelli considers pulling away. Then the dark-haired man releases one of his hands, instead wrapping an arm around him. Cavelli relaxes a little at the contact.

There are a dozen different things he wants to say. Most of them are over-saturated with stupid pet names and weird-sounding things he can’t bring himself to let past his lips. Finally, he settles on something more restrained, something that doesn't sound too out of place under the dim lights and against the ticking of the clock. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Genovese’s lips curve up into a reassuring smile, one that’s enough to pull a faint smile out of Cavelli in return. “I’ll always be here.”

It’s a lie, of course, or at least a mistruth. Nobody can promise that. Especially in Salem. But Cavelli finds himself believing it regardless, letting himself sink even further into the embrace, into the steady comfort of Genovese’s side. “I don't know how you always know what to say.”

Maybe this ‘something’ is nothing close to love, nothing more than him clinging onto the last person that makes him feel remotely human. He's too tired to consider it. The way Genovese leans over to kiss him on the cheek feels real enough, and the reassuring weight of an arm around him feels real enough. Maybe it's not quite what could be considered love, but it's _something_ , isn't it?

Cavelli thinks it could be enough for him anyways. He's always made do before. 


	2. the end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes to an end eventually.

It hadn’t gotten worse all at once.

 

It was gradual, eventual, a slow erosion of everything he’d come to appreciate. He had called it romance once; now love was hardly more than a foregone conclusion. Pretty words no longer outweighed the _other_ things Genovese said. Brief, delicate brushes of affection meant nothing in the face of what they did in the dark, the things Cavelli let himself be subjected to in the name of what he still called love. _Those_ things were the ones that replayed in his head for days on end. _Those_ words stuck until he began to accept them. Acceptance only made them sting more.

 

It had turned into shame by now, every last bit of it. Being spoken to, being touched, even Genovese’s cutting, catlike red stare, looking at Cavelli like he could see right through him. Being ‘loved’, if that was even the proper word for this, in a way that hurt but was still more than he could possibly deserve.  Everything had turned into shame.

 

But he had never expected something like this.

 

It didn’t hurt at first; instead a sharp, sudden tingling feeling, almost like he’d pulled a plug too quickly and received an electrical shock. A slowly spreading warmth that gave way to a burning heat. Bearable; not _that_ bad.

 

Then Genovese twisted the knife in his back.

 

The sound alone was enough to make nausea surge up in his throat; he doubted he could scream if he tried. It took a second for his brain to catch up with the pain. As soon as it did, he immediately wished it hadn’t. Genovese pulled the knife out agonizingly slowly, Cavelli’s fingertips digging into the other man’s suit as he struggled to keep himself upright as the injury was torn open even wider, the warmth turning into searing agony.

 

The blade was yanked out entirely a second later. Genovese was staring at him, his expression impossible to read. “Oh,” was all Cavelli could manage before his legs gave out underneath him.

 

His back slammed into the leg of a heavy mahogany chair and he let out a sharp cry at the collision. It effectively held him somewhat upright, the wood digging into the site of the stabbing, pressing the fabric of his ruined coat into the wound; moving only made it a thousand times worse. “Oh, God. Geno -- ”

 

Genovese didn’t spare him a glance, looking at the blood-soaked knife with something approaching distaste, as if he found it messy. He knelt down next to Cavelli and painstakingly wiped it clean on the edge of Cavelli’s coat. Only then did he bother looking up, fixing cold eyes on Cavelli, the traces of a grin on his face.

 

“You’re so easy to catch off-guard,” Genovese said softly. “So trusting. Perhaps it has something to do with that idiotic philosophy of yours.”

 

Genovese was looking at him in a way Cavelli had never seen before, distaste and superiority and a smug sort of glee mixed together in a stare that made Cavelli’s blood run cold. Cavelli flinched away, back against the chair, as far away as he could manage. “What are you fucking talking about? _What are you doing?_ ”

 

“I’ve wondered for a while how you believe so wholeheartedly that all people are good.”

 

“Of course people are good. You’re -- what’s going _on_ with you?” This conversation was all wrong. Everything was wrong. _Genovese_ was wrong. For the first time, something approaching true fear prickled at the very edges of Cavelli’s thoughts, cold and petrifying.

 

Genovese seemed unbothered by the question. If anything, he looked almost pleased with Cavelli’s reaction, like a cat toying with its prey before the inevitable kill. As if this was nothing more than entertainment.  “Even your own actions prove that you’re wrong,” he continued calmly, as if he’d never been interrupted. “You do nothing but cause others suffering and yet you don’t have the courage to end it. You call yourself a good person when all you are is a murderer.”

 

“What are you _saying_ ? This isn’t you. You wouldn’t -- listen, people aren’t -- this isn’t you, Geno. You wouldn’t say that.”  Reconciling this Genovese with the Genovese Cavelli could’ve sworn he knew was downright impossible. Genovese would never -- or maybe he -- no. This had to be a nightmare. There was no way this was _real_.

 

But the pain felt real, far too real, just as real as Genovese’s hand as he reached down and delicately cupped Cavelli’s chin and gave him a twisted facsimile of a smile. “But this _is_ me. Don’t you understand, Luci? It was all fake. Every last bit of it. I told you what you wanted to hear, and you bought it, over and over again. I _never_ loved you.”

 

This couldn’t be happening.

 

Cavelli’s chest ached. The room felt like it was spinning, the lump in his throat growing almost painful. Hot tears were welling up in his eyes. This was far from the first time Genovese had seen him cry -- far from the first time Genovese had caused it, too, even if he was sure it had always been _accidental_ \-- but all those other times Cavelli could’ve pretended he didn’t mean it.

 

The feeling of skin against his skin made him shudder. Genovese traced his fingertips across the curve of Cavelli’s jaw, gingerly, as if he was touching something unclean and didn’t want to dirty his hands. The contact made Cavelli flinch and instinctively lean into it at the same time.

 

He looked away, down towards the collar of Genovese’s suit, away from those _eyes_. If he didn’t look, he could believe it was just a mistake.

 

Any moment now, Genovese would realize what he’d done and the smile would disappear. He would apologize and hug Cavelli and say he didn’t mean it. He never meant it. That they loved each other and it would be okay in the end.

 

They could go back to how it was before, before any semblance of love turned bitter and serrated, before everything went so wrong. Cavelli still couldn’t figure out exactly what he’d _done_ but he had a feeling no amount of apologizing would mean anything anymore.

 

“How did you ever believe I could love something like you?” Genovese asked gently, almost soothingly, just like always. As if this was just some kind of sick joke. “You’re far too pathetic to even deserve my time. You’re not a good person, _luce dei miei occhi._ You’re _worthless_.”

 

The tears spilling down Cavelli’s cheeks immediately felt a thousand times more humiliating. He couldn’t blink them away; he couldn’t do much of anything, unable to even pull his gaze away from Genovese. “Don’t say that, I’m not a _thing_.”

 

“Are you? You’re hardly more than a shell,” Genovese nearly purred. His tone was far too sweet for the sharpness of his words. “You’re so desperate for someone to tell you it’s going to be alright that you only see what you want to see. It’s never going to be alright. You just want to be _loved_ , don’t you? You just want someone to care. But _nobody cares_. Not Romano, not Chiara, and certainly not me.”

 

“I thought -- ”

 

“Your precious consigliere friend is the one who told me to finally dispose of you.”

 

The words had about the same effect as a punch in the throat. _Chiara_. Cavelli stared up at him, wide-eyed, with something approaching dawning horror; Genovese only smiled back at him. “You’re so hopelessly naive. I know you thought she had your best interests in mind, hm? You were wrong about a lot of things.”

 

Cavelli felt himself flush with heavy, sickening shame. The pain was fading into background noise. He was going to die. Already dying. He couldn’t recall ever feeling this hollow in his life.

 

No matter how awful everything had become, death held an entirely new kind of terror. He watched helplessly as Genovese pulled away and gracefully rose to his feet.

 

“I think I’ve wasted enough time on humoring your pitiful little fantasies,” his former lover said with a sharp, vicious finality. He tucked the knife casually into a pocket. “It’s about time I got something out of it. We’re done, _caro_. Try not to bleed out too quickly; maybe Romano will show up in time for you to say your goodbyes.”

 

“No, wait, Geno, don’t,” Cavelli said desperately, gasping in a lungful of air. He couldn’t get to his feet. His entire body felt so heavy, like he was made of solid lead. He didn’t have the strength to even reach for Genovese’s hand; even if he could, he didn’t doubt it would be slapped away. “Please -- it hurts, please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to die, I _don’t want to die_ \-- ”

 

The door closed softly behind Genovese, Cavelli’s pleas met only with a deafening silence. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

**Author's Note:**

> luciano genovese is not my oc - he belongs to ari and i like him probably more than i should
> 
> anyways :') this caused me pain to write but hopefully it's not quite as painful to read. thanks for your time


End file.
